


Tied

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Light Bondage, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the night before Christmas and Harry was <i>hungry</i>.</p><p>Or the one where Harry turned Zayn into a vampire, and things didn't quite go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jadziadrgnrdr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadziadrgnrdr/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Crystal! I really hope you like this. I tried to keep my weird kinky self in check - all of the bloodplay is in the context of vampire feeding and the light bondage tag refers to one scene where they get creative with some silk ties. 
> 
> A million thanks to Rue for giving a draft of this a look over. Any remaining mistakes are totally my own.
> 
> Please let me know if you want me to be more aggressive with my tagging!
> 
> [ Tumblr](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/) | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xtracalidopechk)

It was the night before Christmas and Harry was _hungry_.

It was the sort of hunger that seemed to tear through his innards indiscriminately, pain that radiated so acutely Harry would swear that he could feel it in his bones. Blinding, all-consuming, his fangs ripping through his gums as he panted with the desire to tear flesh and muscle and taste the sweet nectar of blood.

It was the sort of blurring hunger Harry only ever felt when Zayn was near.

Harry closed his eyes and tried not to hope.

  
  


Harry had done all of this before, was the thing. Over and over, part of an awful, mindless cycle for close to sixty years.

And every previous time Harry had gotten his hopes up and let his guard down. Walked down stranger's spiral staircases and left front doors unlocked, sitting up well into the early morning hours with nothing but a candle by his side and the indescribable hunger gnawing through his being. Like a trusting wife waiting for her heroic husband to return from war, Harry let himself find solace in auspicious thoughts, fought through the nagging worry that Zayn would not show.

Even though every time before Zayn had not come.

The hunger eventually abated and Harry walked back down staircases and relocked front doors, his hands crumpling against wood uselessly as he tried to cry tears his body was no longer capable of producing.

That was the worst thing about all of this. Because it was one thing to live with a broken heart. It was something else entirely to be undead with one.

  
  


Harry could hardly even remember his existence prior to meeting Zayn two hundred years ago. Harry knew that he had once been human, but that was even longer ago, an existence that had become fuzzy and dream-like with the slow and steady passage of time. Harry did know that he had been born into a fair amount of privilege, at least for the time period, but the entirety of his family died when a plague tore through the region. Harry had been lost, aimless and helpless, a man-child with wealth but not the most sense. He had been living by himself when someone came to him – a woman in a shroud, with ruddy skin and wide eyes. He did not know why he felt compelled to do it, but he took her to bed and mesmerized her skin with the flat of his tongue. And then there had been pain, coldness, then a fever followed by shakes. It was a misery Harry had never experienced before. He thought he was dying, and he did.

Later, the woman would say that she had saved him, would say that she could hear the infection in his lungs, and she could not bear the thought of such beautiful green eyes going to waste.

But that was so long ago and Harry did not even know the year he was turned. He had a lot of spare time and had taken many university courses throughout the years in an attempt to piece everything back together, assuming he had been born sometime during the period the humans now referred to as the Middle Ages, but there was no way he could be entirely sure.

Either way, Harry traveled aimlessly for a very long time. It was different then – vampires did not have to live in secret. They could earn a living out in the open, could amass wealth and earn respect and privilege. Harry spent time with clans, made his way around the world and learned languages, forgot entirely what it was like to be mortal and have a mortal's thoughts. He thought he was happy.

But then he stumbled upon Zayn Malik.

  
  


There was a sudden knock at the door and Harry shivered, the yearning in his flesh almost twisting. The intensity of his lust notched up by what felt like threefold and Harry bit down, fangs poking through the meat of his bottom lip. Harry cried out at the taste of his own blood, the copper a poor substitute for the sweetness he truly desired.

Harry grabbed hold of his pillow and bit down, his fangs slicing easily through the fabric. Feathers flowed out of the opening and spilled across the bedspread and Harry coughed against the pieces that clung to his tongue, unsure as to why he thought doing this would even be a good idea. If anything, he just felt hungrier, completely unsatisfied even when causing destruction.

“Harry? Harry – uh. It's uh. It's me.”

Harry picked up individual feathers and began systematically ripping the bits apart. This was a new low. His hunger during Zayn's annual visits always went through peaks and valleys, but Harry had never imagined Zayn calling to him before. If Harry were to daydream, it was to imagine Zayn pushing the door down and immediately wrapping Harry up in an embrace, whispering sweet nothings against Harry's neck before baring his own, urging Harry with soft lips and even softer hands to _feed_.

But this was so much worse. Imagining that there was ever a universe where Zayn wanted Harry back, where Zayn would return. Harry continued ripping through feathers and wallowed in his own self-loathing.

  
  


Harry couldn't even remember where he had been. Somewhere in the Mediterranean, perhaps. It was warm. The only thing Harry could be sure of was that it was night and all of the streets were lit by lanterns. Zayn was the one who had all of those details readily available, still a young vampire capable of remembering his life before being turned, but he hadn't talked to Harry in almost sixty years. Never even told Harry why he was there that night, sprawled across an ill-lit alleyway.

At first, Harry had assumed that it was just some drunkard, a silly mortal who had collapsed against the pavement, giving up on his way home. That was Harry's first thought from the way the body was contorted, crumpled against itself in the fetal position. Looking every bit like a man who had just happened to fall asleep.

It wasn't until Harry nearly lost his footing, boots slick and sticky with blood, that Harry knew. And my, wasn't that silly. Because Harry should have been able to smell it, his mouth should have been salivating at the promise of such an easy meal.

But instead Harry felt nothing. No roil in his stomach, no warmth in his fingertips, none of the normal indicators his body provided in anticipation of a feeding. Just a sinking sense of disappointment, and Harry geared himself up to continue walking, annoyed that this silly human was apparently already cold with death.

Except it wasn't. The man huffed out a breath, low enough that a mortal would not have been able to catch it, and Harry heard more blood dribble against the cobblestone.

Harry crept over the body and used the toe of his boot to knock the man over. The man went easily, landing on his back with a sick, wet thud. Harry curled his lips at the sound but examined the man closely, careful to not to sully his own clothes with blood. The man was simply dressed – trousers and a thin top that had been soaked through from the gaping wound in his chest. A peasant, more than likely, or a streetwalker. He didn't even have shoes, the soles of his feet blackened and rough. From the slow, wet breaths the man was still taking, it was clear that he had been stabbed through at least one of his lungs.

And he was _beautiful_. Harry had not been interested in mortals in so long, bored by their short lives and foolish attempts at trying to deduce meaning from the jumbled events that made up their existence. And so many of the vampires Harry had encountered over the years were stunning, creatures with smooth, ageless skin and wise eyes, beings who had so much knowledge to import to sillier immortals like Harry. Harry could not remember the last time he had gazed at a mortal and felt any sort of stirring, mentally or otherwise, not unless it was the slow satisfaction that accompanied a particularly satisfying meal.

But this man – there was no other word to describe him. He was so beautiful, in a simplistic way that would always capture a stranger's imagination. Tanned skin, dark hair and long, spidery eyelashes that fanned across high, defined cheekbones. Even in the last gasps of life, blood pooling out of his mouth and his body jerking in its hopeless fight against the inevitable, this man was the most exquisite being Harry had ever seen.

But this man also would not have much longer now. He was close to death – he had perhaps a minute more.

Harry had always wondered what it was the woman who turned him meant as she ran spindly fingers along the knobs of his spine and whispered that his death would have been a waste. He had been young in this new existence, terrified of a woman with ruddy skin and long fingernails, and did not dare press the matter. He suddenly understood, now.

Harry didn't even think. He just knelt against the cobblestone and pressed his lips to this man's neck, his mouth suddenly salivating at the promise of what was to come. Harry's fangs crashed through his gums and Harry breathed wetly against the man's flesh, taking a moment to just anticipate.

When his fangs finally pierced skin, Harry moaned and the sound seemed to echo throughout the night in some sort of orgasmic symphony. Because this man was the sweetest mortal Harry had ever fed from, and Harry was already drunk from the taste.

  
  


Harry's vampire form could not cry, but he could sleep and he could dream. And sometimes when Zayn was close and the hunger was too much, his body elected out of consciousness. Which was, of course, a nice way of saying that the pain became so intense that Harry passed out, spread out on top of feathers and torn fabric.

When Harry finally came to, it was dark outside. His bones were aching but the searing pain had passed. He could almost breathe normally again.

Zayn wasn't close anymore.

  
  


Harry had never turned anyone before. Luckily enough, he was staying with a small clan of vampires at the time, and one of them, Louis, was even older than Harry. Louis liked to claim that he could remember the first Christians, and Harry knew that Louis had turned several vampires over the years, including the woman that was now his wife.

Harry made his way back to Louis' house with blood drying in the corner of his mouth and the man swaddled in his arms. It had been so difficult to stop drinking – Harry almost got lost in the taste and the smell, the way life pulsed out of the man's body and began to warm Harry's own.

That was the most intoxicating thing about feeding – the moment where Harry almost felt mortal again, where he could swear that his cold, undead heart gave a pitiful beat.

Harry knew, indescribably, innately, when to stop, tearing away from the man's jugular with a slick smack. The minute Harry was done, sure that he had drank just enough to turn and not kill, Harry could feel the first seeds of possession, wanting nothing more than to care for the man panting softly against the ground. So Harry pulled off his own coat and wrapped the man up in it, hoisting the man's feeble form into his arms and beginning his walk back to the clan's residence, his boots clicking against the cobblestone.

Louis sighed at the sight on his doorstep before letting Harry inside, leading Harry to an unoccupied bedroom. He instructed Harry to drop the man in the center of the bed and together they tied the man's wrists to the canopy bedposts, Harry feeling an ache in his chest at the thought of restraining such a beautiful being.

“They tend to be violent when they first wake up,” Louis explained as he pulled the ropes taut. “They're hysterical with hunger and do not yet realize their strength. They aren't pleased to come to like this, of course, but it's for their own safety.”

Harry nodded, watching as Louis finished his final knot and surveyed the scene in front of him. The man was still wearing Harry's coat, the sides of which were now stained brown. The man's breathing had stopped completely.

“You did a good job with him,” Louis remarked. “Clean bite marks and all – it hardly looks like your first go at turning someone. How did you meet him?”

“I haven't,” Harry said, pressing his tongue up to the roof of his mouth. If he concentrated hard enough, he could still taste the sweet, unrivaled richness of the man's blood. It made something warm travel through Harry's own veins, his cock plump and wet against his thigh, but that could wait. “I don't even know his name. He was in an alleyway and I stumbled upon him. Quite literally, actually.”

Louis made a face, tilting his head to the side and assessing Harry in the way that always made Harry feel small and stupid. “You didn't smell him? Couldn't hear his heartbeat?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I didn't even realize he was there until I got his blood on my shoes.”

Louis blinked and then his face contorted, his lips falling downward as he sighed. “Oh, _Harry_.”

  
  


Harry attempted to clean up all of the feathers. This wasn't his house – it was only polite that he keep everything tidy while the owners were away. He did not want anyone to get the wrong impression of him.

Harry had once had aspirations of being a more domestic vampire, settling down in one place and assembling his own clan around him. But Harry had also once thought Zayn could love him back. Over the past half-century or so Harry had tried to do away with entertaining such foolish notions and took to bouncing around, visiting clans around the world and staying with old friends whenever he could. It was easier to pretend as though Zayn's absence was not tearing him apart when he wasn't in places that he had once dreamed of taking Zayn to. So Milan, Cannes, London, São Paulo – those beautiful cities were all out of the question.

That was how Harry had ended up in Miami for the past few years. It was a city with a thriving nightlife and a significant drifter population. Thousands of people with lowered inhibitions and holes in their hearts. Harry fit right in.

A few years ago, Louis had visited, and as they shared a woman, each of them taking an arm, Louis remarked that Zayn was in Florida now, too. Harry licked blood from his gums and stubbornly informed Louis that he didn't care.

  
  


Harry stayed by the man's side over the next few days. Harry watched as the body went cold and ashen, the man's mortality creeping out of him in increments as the human in him died. Then there was the fever, warmth returning to the man's body, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, a sickness that the man would never overcome – that held all vampires hostage. And that's when the thrashing began, and the vomiting.

Louis said that Harry would know that the transition was successful when fangs finally tore through the man's gums and he sat up.

“And you'll have to feed him,” Louis said. “You'll have to be the one. You'll know what to do when the moment comes.”

Harry nodded and Louis left.

Harry sat in an armchair in the corner of the room and didn't move for two weeks. He just waited.

  
  


Harry was feeling hungry and restless so he went for a walk to clear his mind. There were still plenty of people out and about in South Beach despite the late holiday hour, tourists and locals taking to the streets in equal measure. There was something intoxicating about the anonymity, about Harry letting himself walk amongst mortals, so Harry pulled his hair back into a bun and strolled along with the throng. He was no longer blindingly hungry but he still knew he needed to feed, drink just enough to take the edge off and banish his sour mood.

Harry was walking down Washington Avenue with his hands in his pockets when he caught sight of a beautifully sculpted familiar face, an arched back that was all Harry had been wanting to see for the past sixty years. Lean and fit, standing outside of a silly burger restaurant as though he was a mortal capable of finding pleasure in greasy foods and sugary soft drinks. And the hunger was there again, sudden and painful, raging and intense like the hurricanes that slam into the Floridian coast every year. Harry tried to blink against it but he couldn't, the entirety of his being focused on laying claim to the man he had once wanted to give everything up for.

Harry hoped it was a mirage, hoped that he was going mad as he advanced in his vampirism. It was certainly possible. But Zayn looked up from across the crowd and smiled, that same lopsided grin that Harry could never quite get right in his own daydreams, and Harry knew that this was real. That Zayn was here, standing on a busy street in South Beach and looking like a painting.

Harry did not believe in higher powers, but as he moved toward Zayn, drawn by everything Zayn was, Harry knew this had to be some sort of Christmas miracle.

  
  


Harry had thought he was prepared for when the man first woke up. Harry had cleaned the man a bit in between the corpse and fever stages, able to move the man more easily once his body was softer and more pliable. Harry removed his bloody coat and the man's ragged, soiled clothing. Harry cleansed the man's death wound and the rest of his body, seethed over the bruises that decorated his golden chest. Then Harry redressed the man in soft, new fabrics and laid him back against the bed.

Harry had thought he was ready – already had the perfect words picked out to introduce the man to his second life.

Harry was _not_ ready.

It started with a whimper, a soft stirring. Legs kicked out against the blankets pooled at the foot of the bed. And then one long, ragged breath.

The man's eyes flew open and Harry's first thought was that they really were a beautiful shade of hazel. The prettiest brown Harry had ever seen. But then the man's mouth dropped open, exposing new, white incisors and bloody gums, and he wailed, a long, cracked shriek that made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand up. The man sat up suddenly, still howling, and pulled against his restraints, the rope twisting against his skin and leaving raised red marks.

Even if Louis hadn't told Harry what needed to be done, Harry would have known it, driven entirely by instinct. Harry leaped from his armchair and dug his teeth into the flesh of his own wrist, letting blackish inky blood drip into his mouth before making his way over to the man, who was still wailing and pulling against the ropes, kicking his legs uselessly and contorting that beautiful, god-like face in his hunger.

Harry thrust his arm out underneath the man's mouth and the man hardly even seemed to know what he was doing, instead just latched into Harry's flesh and sucked in one long pulse that seemed to take them both by surprise.

And Harry had let other vampires feed from him before. Drinking from another vampire wasn't quite the same as finding a mortal to feed from, didn't bring nearly the same level of satisfaction, but it would certainly do in a pinch. But this – this was odd. This was odd because it felt _good_ , made Harry think of a mother suckling her young. Harry watched as the man's eyes fluttered shut and pink returned to his cheeks, a moan escaping from his mouth as he fed, his lips slick and wet against Harry's skin. Something solid and gratified burrowed into Harry's guts and for the first time in his second life, Harry thought, “ _So this is what love feels like_.”

  
  


It was only after Zayn left that Harry figured some stuff out.

Honestly, Harry should have known that there was something special about Zayn from the moment Harry first stumbled upon the man in an alleyway. Harry had heard the expression flow from vampires' mouths so much over the years – _walking onto a soul mate_ – but he'd never bothered to ask what it actually meant. It'd devolved into a colloquial expression over the centuries, of course, came to mean randomly finding oneself in a difficult situation, but Harry had never known that it came from old tales. Legends.

Harry had never been curious about all of the lore surrounding vampires and the mortals they converted and made their mates. He had never heard that the vampire always stumbled upon the humans, not even realizing that the mortal was there until _they were_ , unable to sense this mortal's presence at all. Harry did not know that the vampire had to take the mortal to a place of safety and security after biting them, nurse the convert through the transition, and then feed them with blood from their own wrist.

Harry liked to think that it would've made a difference – that perhaps Zayn would've stayed if he understood what they were. What they were risking by staying apart.

But Harry also knew that he couldn't fault Zayn for running away. Zayn was so young in the scheme of things, deserved to see the world like Harry had. Didn't need to be tied down, deserved to have a second life of his own.

Harry loved Zayn enough to let him run away.

  
  


Harry didn't know what to say once he had finally made his way through the throng, coming to stand in front of the Five Guys and frowning at the stench of fast food. Zayn had a bag of peanuts in his hand and was chewing them lazily, smirking at Harry and looking so, so beautiful.

Harry didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything, instead just drank Zayn in. Zayn had always been much better at keeping up with the mortals' fashions than Harry, and even now he blended in far better than Harry did. Tight denim, a leather jacket, long hair that curled where it fell into his eyes. Zayn reminded Harry of the models he saw on billboards all over South Beach, looked so different from the last time Harry had seen him, with cold eyes and colder hands when he pushed Harry away and said he did not want to do this anymore.

Zayn seemed to take pity on Harry, huffing out a breath and smiling, self-conscious but still winsome. “Hey,” he said, looking up at Harry through eyelashes Harry had dreamed about for decades. “Um. It's good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Harry replied. And as he had learned to do over the years, Harry tried not to get hopeful.

  
  


It took years for Harry to get Zayn to talk to him. Because that was the man's name – Zayn. Zayn Malik. A man who lived on the streets and felt comfortable telling Harry about years of poverty and strife, but who did not feel comfortable confiding why he had ended up bleeding out in an alleyway in the first place.

Louis had said that it might go that way. That Zayn might resent Harry for being changed. And on one level, Harry could understand it. Harry had gotten away from the woman who turned him at the very first opportunity, and even years later, when he would bump into her while staying with one clan or another, he always made sure to keep their encounters short. Cordial and polite because Harry was raised to be a charmer. But Harry never wanted the woman to get the impression that they were friends, because they were not.

But Harry and Zayn – they were soul mates. Harry might not have had the word for it at the beginning, but the ferocious protectiveness he felt over Zayn was there from the very start.

Zayn always struggled against it, struggled against Harry. He fed from Harry begrudgingly, made snide comments about the clans that Harry introduced Zayn to. Zayn said that he felt like a show dog, like a monster, like a whore. Harry hated it, wanted Zayn to see how beautiful and important he was, but Zayn just became more bitter as the years trudged on, hated Harry more intensely with every passing day. It was the worst thing.

And despite all of that, despite all of the signs, Harry did not expect Zayn to leave. The thought never even crossed his mind.

  
  


Zayn followed Harry back to the house Harry had been staying at for the past few months. The clan that owned it were all in the Caribbean for the holidays and asked that Harry watch over their cats in their absence. Harry always thought it was silly that vampires could grow so attached to animals with even shorter lifespans than humans, but Harry did find a bit of humor in waking up to the cats proudly presenting Harry with dead birds and rats every morning. Then again, it wasn't like vampires were much different.

Zayn kept close to Harry once Harry got the front door open, whistling low under his breath as Harry led him through the atrium. The house was rather ostentatious, gaudy in the way only Miami could be. Ten bedrooms, high ceilings, an infinity pool overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. But Harry didn't want to feel like he was showing off. He led Zayn directly up the staircase and to his own room, shutting the door behind them with a soft snick.

Harry was so hungry his hands were trembling. Zayn smelled _so good_ , like home and comfort and familiarity and love. Like all of the things Harry had convinced himself he would never find. And yet Zayn was here, real, living but also undead, sitting on the edge of Harry's bed with wide, wild eyes and his fangs bared.

Maybe Zayn just wanted to feed. Maybe Zayn was only here because he wanted a taste of Harry, wanted to sink his teeth into Harry's willing skin. Maybe Zayn wanted to run his fingers along the sides of Harry's ribs as he fed and then he would disappear for another sixty years.

Harry could feel his fingertips go cold and his body ached at the thought. He wasn't sure his body could survive another sixty years of Zayn's absence. He had heard tales of vampires wasting away without their mates.

“I'm not just here to drink from you,” Zayn said, almost as if he could read Harry's thoughts. His words were slightly muffled around his bared fangs. It was obscene, the way his incisors poked his bottom lip. It was almost like seeing Zayn with his hard cock out, a sight Harry had only ever been privy to once. Almost as erotic as if Zayn were sat in the middle of Harry's bed wearing nothing more than a festive holiday bow. “I wanted to see you.”

“And now you have,” Harry answered with a sad smile, dropping his arms at his side. “So when are you leaving again?”

“I was here earlier,” Zayn replied, his face twisting in confusion. Harry had never been cross with Zayn before. Even when Zayn pushed Harry away, saying that he was no longer willing to be Harry's ready-made whore, Harry hadn't raised his voice. Just nodded and fought against his own sick, closing the door behind Zayn's angry footsteps. “It was like I couldn't hear anything but your heartbeat. Don't you remember? Didn't you hear me calling?”

Harry clenched his fist and his jaw, bit down against the urge to pretend as though he didn't know what Zayn was talking about. So it hadn't been his imagination, then. “I – I couldn't be sure.”

“Of what, love?”

Harry tried not to flinch at the endearment. It didn't feel right flowing from Zayn's lips, not when the last time they had been together Zayn had called Harry a beast, a monstrosity. “I couldn't be sure that it was you. And not just my imagination.”

Zayn reached out to Harry, rising slightly from where he was perched on the edge of the bed, and Harry took a step back, crossed his arms over my chest. “Harry,” Zayn said, his pleading voice so soft and forlorn. “Harry, I'm _sorry_.”

“I waited for you,” Harry answered, walking until his back hit the wall of his bedroom. He didn't want to get upset with Zayn, it was the last thing he ever wanted to do. But he had been alone and desperate and _hungry_ for so long. “I waited, trembling with desire, every fucking Christmas Eve for the past sixty years and all you can say is that _you're sorry_? You told me you wanted nothing to do with me, that you wanted me gone. So I let you leave and then you kept coming back. Every single year, Zayn. Like hellish clockwork. It wasn't fair. You should've just gone and let me live out the rest of this life in peace.”

“Harry – ” And Zayn opened his mouth as though he was going to say something that would change things. As though he was going to say something that would make a difference, that would erase all of the pain and suffering Harry had bore silently and stoically, Zayn's absence like an albatross that grew fangs and tore through layers of skin.

“No,” Harry interrupted. And Harry fought against the searing hunger in his bones and turned away.

  
  


Right before Zayn left, right before he called Harry all sorts of names and said that there was nothing more repulsive than feeding from Harry, from being near Harry, Harry let Zayn tie him up. It was the first thing Zayn always threw out whenever they had a fight, which was depressingly often, every single day for 140 years – that Zayn woke up, frightened and hungry, and not only was he turned, but Harry had restrained him as though he were a rabid dog. So Harry suggested that it might make Zayn feel better to tie Harry up, to see what it was like when Harry had to do the same with Zayn. That being restrained didn't have to mean anything bad.

Zayn had just gaped at Harry. Harry knew that Zayn didn't understand it, thought that Harry was being foolish in giving Zayn that level of power. Vampires could be injured, could be killed. It was difficult, yes, but certainly possible. Zayn could kill Harry fairly easily if Harry was already restrained. But Harry trusted Zayn, knew that Zayn would never hurt him. If he had truly wanted to, if Zayn hated Harry that intensely, he could've already killed Harry long, long ago.

They were staying at an old vampire's house in Hawaii at the time. The vampire in question liked making his own furniture, would cut down trees and use the pieces to assemble dressers and the like, and there was a sturdy wooden chair in the middle of Zayn and Harry's shared room. Harry knew there was rope in a shed out back, but Zayn had shook his head at the suggestion, gesturing for Harry to sit down on the wooden chair before going through Harry's things and pulling out a pair of ties.

Harry held his arms behind him, resting them against the back of the chair. Zayn looked at Harry again, his eyes distant but intrigued, and Harry nodded, encouraging him. Zayn leaped into action and tied Harry's arms together with two knotted silk ties. A tautline hitch, with enough space between Harry's wrists not to chafe. Not the type of knot Harry would have chosen for himself, but Zayn had never done this before. Harry would bet that Zayn didn't even know there were ways to make handcuffs out of rope.

When Zayn was finished, he came to stand in front of Harry, watching as Harry exhaled, long and tranquil. It was perhaps the most intimate moment of Harry's life, vampiric second existence or otherwise. Letting someone gaze upon him and trusting that the eyes watching him were going to keep him safe. Zayn seemed to be mesmerizing the steady rise and fall of Harry's chest, his hazel eyes heavy-lidded and desperate.

That was the first time Zayn kissed Harry, bare feet padding across the room before his hands cupped the side of Harry's face. Zayn stroked his pointer fingers against the thin skin behind Harry's ears, gentle and soft. Harry hummed into the touch, hissing when Zayn leaned in to press his lips against Harry's and his fangs scraped against Harry's bottom lip.

Harry was surprised at how sweet Zayn tasted. Not as sugary and addictive as the blood that pumped through his veins, but almost. Reminded Harry of Christmas Eve, of what disjointed memories Harry had of the day from when he was a mortal. Like standing beside his mother as a child and listening to her hum as she began celebrations for the day. Because that's what Zayn was to Harry – home. Somewhere to rest his weary head, lying his ear against Zayn's chest and pretending as though they both had a heartbeat.

Perhaps it was silliness, but Harry meant it. They had been spending time with each other for almost 150 years. And it was far from perfect – they fought more than they were kind, and Zayn could utter words laced with venom that made Harry want to shed human tears – but Harry had to believe that there was something magical here. After being alive for centuries, Harry had to hope that there was some sort of reason behind it. Some sort of higher meaning.

Zayn seemed to relax against Harry's chest, scooting up higher onto Harry's lap and pressing their chests together. And it was nice, Zayn's weight and his bony thighs resting against Harry's own while Harry hummed into Zayn's mouth, wrapping his tongue against Zayn's and trying to fight against the urge to expose his own fangs. To take a bite.

That was also the first time Harry fucked Zayn, the first time they had ever touched each other like this. Harry had always wanted to, of course he did, but he respected Zayn's boundaries and never wanted Zayn to feel as though he was obligated to give Harry anything. But Zayn initiated the sexual encounter, pushing his trousers down underneath the slight protrusion of his bottom before discarding them entirely, same with his top. It seemed as though he was bolder with the knowledge that Harry was restrained, pulling Harry's trousers down and stroking Harry's hard cock with faux-innocent eyes. Brazen knowing that Harry could look and kiss, but not truly touch.

The vampire they were staying with had already gifted them with coconut oil, and Zayn made his way across the room to grab the jar before returning to Harry and the wooden chair. Zayn was so beautiful, warm olive toned skin and doe-like hazel eyes, plus a thick, circumcised cock that Harry wanted to toast to. Zayn returned to splay himself across Harry's lap, propping himself on his knees over Harry's crotch and opening himself with oil-slick fingers. The sight was better than anything Harry had ever witnessed, better than sharing meals with other vampires, better than the handful of times Zayn had gotten desperate enough to let Harry feed. Because this was all willingly given, presented to Harry like a holiday ham, supplemented with the tremble of Zayn's thighs and his sweet, hymn-like moans.

Outside, Harry could hear the stirrings of an afternoon storm, and Harry felt kinship with the winds, with the roiling waves and the crackle of thunder.

Zayn was three fingers deep and leaking before he removed his fingers entirely, bracing himself with hands dug in Harry's shoulders before sinking down, slowly, perfectly, on Harry's cock. Harry could see the beginning and end of the universe behind his closed eyelids, the entirety of his being focused on not pushing upwards, on just relishing the tight heat of Zayn's body. Harry's hands grasped against his restraints and Harry shed a tear, suddenly morose that he was unable to dig his fingers into the meat of Zayn's thighs or push Zayn's dark hair away from his sweaty forehead. It was the best and the worst thing, Zayn swiveling his hips on top of Harry in small circles before sinking his teeth into Harry's neck, fangs puncturing through skin as he drank long and deep.

It could have lasted minutes or years, but Harry was overwhelmed by all of the sensations nonetheless. Letting Zayn use him. Being inside of Zayn in the best possible way. Being restrained and knowing that Zayn would never hurt him – it was all so much. But then Zayn jerked wet heat all over Harry's stomach and Harry could feel Zayn's shuddering from the inside, and Harry came himself with a long, drawn out moan. Harry pulsed long and deep inside of Zayn while Zayn shuddered a wet breath over Harry's puncture wounds, lapping at the blood still dribbling from Harry's neck.

Zayn undid Harry's restraints and couldn't quite meet Harry's eyes before he excused himself. When he returned, hours later, it was almost like they had never done anything at all. As though Harry had dreamed it all up.

The next day – Christmas morning, 1954 – Zayn would be gone.

  
  


Harry wanted Zayn to leave, but Zayn just followed Harry around the house. Zayn was insistent that they talk, as though there was anything Harry wanted to hear Zayn say at this point. Sixty years was simultaneously a blink of an eye and a long time, especially when you were hungry and there was only one thing in the world that would slick your thirst. Harry didn't want to hear about whoever it was that had broken Zayn's heart, who had made him turn back towards Harry with his tail between his legs.

“I didn't realize how good I had it until I'd left,” Zayn mumbled, running his hands over his hair nervously while they sat in the kitchen. He had been talking for a while but Harry hadn't been listening. Harry wasn't even sure what time it was, but it was raining and it hurt to look at Zayn dead-on. Harry was too hungry and Zayn smelled too good.

Harry wondered where Zayn had been all these years, whether he was spending time with mortals, playing house, denying to himself what he really was. Harry knew younger vampires did that sometimes – tried to bond to humans that weren't their soul mate. The humans were typically someone the vampire knew prior to being turned. It always ended in one of two ways – they either converted the mortal and realized that the human's fascination disappeared once they were a vampire as well, or the vampire accidentally killed them. Harry wondered which of the two led Zayn back to him.

“You say that like you were a kept man,” Harry responded. “Like I only desired your presence for one reason.” Like they weren't soul mates, like their bond didn't run deeper than one night of passion, words spoken in anger, and waking up every day for sixty years to a cold bed.

It took Zayn several minutes to answer. While he waited, Harry drummed his fingertips against the island counter and chewed the inside of his cheek. The clan had a few blood bags in the refrigerator and Harry was strongly contemplating bursting one open, just so that he could think again. He was _that_ hungry.

“I – I know,” Zayn admitted. Low, barely above a whisper.. But he did say it. “You have to understand the way it looked to me, though. I'd been living on the streets before you found me, doing whatever it took to get by. I wasn't accustomed to the idea of generosity simply for generosity's sake – hell, the last time I'd done a good deed, it left me alone in an alleyway.”

Harry was gobsmacked. Two hundred years and this was the closest Zayn had gotten to explaining why he had ended up stabbed the day Harry found him. “I would've explained,” Harry tried instead. “If you would've talked to me, if you would've given me the time of day. I would've made it plain, told you everything I learned. I would've – gods, Zayn. I would've done anything for you.”

“But not anymore, huh?” Zayn asked, licking over his chapped lips before raising his eyes to meet Harry's.

It didn't feel fair and Harry wanted to scream it in Zayn's face – that none of this was fair. That he had done his best and Zayn always refused to meet him halfway. But this was all Harry's fault anyway. He was the one who had acted like he gave Zayn some sort of gift by providing him with this second life. And it hadn't been a gift. Not at all.

“I am always going to be extremely fond of you,” Harry finally settled upon saying.

“And that's it?” Zayn urged, tone almost goading. “That's all you feel for me? Fondness?”

“What more do you want me to say?” Harry asked, his voice cracking in the middle. “Why are you pressing me now, after all these years?”

“Because I'm sick of pretending like there isn't something here,” Zayn exclaimed. “Like I haven't been _hungry_ ever since I left.”

“So you're hungry,” Harry said, pursing his lips. “That doesn't mean anything.”

“Harry – ”

“No,” Harry said. “Zayn, _please_. If you're not going to stay – ”

“Who said I wasn't going to stay?” Zayn demanded.

Harry pushed himself away from the island counter, his chair scraping against the tiles. His vampire body couldn't cry, but it could sleep. And he needed to do that.

  
  


It was Christmas morning and Zayn was _hungry_.

It was the sort of hunger that radiated throughout his extremities, pain so acute that Zayn felt as though it was etched into his bones. Stinging, blinding, his fangs sharp as he panted with the desire to tear flesh and muscle and taste the the sweetness underneath.

It was the sort of hunger Zayn only felt when he was near Harry. Hunger, mixed with warmth and lust and the multitude of conflicting emotions Zayn had been warring against ever since he woke up in an unfamiliar bed with ropes tied around his wrists.

Zayn opened his eyes and blinked against the sunlight that streaked through the living room. Contrary to all of the low budget horror films Zayn had the pleasure of viewing over the decades, vampires could indeed spend time in the sun. Hell, vampires could even see themselves in the mirror. It was just simpler to find easy prey under the cloak of darkness.

Zayn had spent the night on the couch, knowing that Harry was still upset with him but incapable of going elsewhere. His body couldn't physically tolerate the distance anymore.

Zayn wasn't sure what Harry thought, but Zayn was never too far away. He couldn't be, not when the distance caused Zayn's gums to bleed and the skin around his fingernails to constrict, not when the aching hunger got so bad at one point that he became bedridden and needed Louis to help him through the day.

It was Louis who finally ended up explaining it to him. And Zayn had been so angry, honestly wished that Harry had just left Zayn to die in that alleyway after getting stabbed by that asshole from the bar, because if this was honestly what love was like for vampires, Zayn wanted no part in it. He had prided himself on living life on his own terms as a mortal and fate had dealt him the worst possible hand. And everyone talked to Zayn as though he was obligated to be grateful and love someone who had stolen death's sweet kiss from him. As though he was obligated to love Harry.

It was only once Zayn began trailing Harry, quietly and from a distance something like fifty-two years ago, that Zayn realized what a beautiful person Harry was. Harry, a man who traveled the world and picked up nicknacks wherever he went, who took classes at local universities just for fun, who pretended as though he could live even without Zayn by his side. The rabid hate edged away over the years, slinking out of Zayn's body like an infection, and Zayn found himself standing on Harry's doorstep every Christmas Eve. He knew that Harry pretended as though he was above mortal holidays, but Christmas Eve was and always had been special. Zayn didn't understand it, his own beliefs tested from the moment he had been bit, but Zayn could respect that Harry found something beautiful about the day. And every year Zayn almost pushed the door in. He wanted to let Harry envelope him in warmth and try this thing over again. For real this time, proper and right. But every year he didn't.

Except for this year. He would make it right, now.

And so Zayn blinked against the sunlight and stretched out along the length of the couch, his shoulders popping satisfyingly. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and pushed himself off of the couch, making his way into the kitchen on worn, bare feet.

Harry was already sitting at the island counter, two mugs placed in front of him. Zayn took a seat across from Harry and tried not to read too much into it when Harry grinned, hesitant but as warm as the Miami sun.

Zayn was well aware that maybe the hopeful feeling in his chest was foolish. But after two hundred years, Zayn wanted to believe he was wrong.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If this sucks I'm really sorry


End file.
